> When you came back up the lift it didnt appear that you had reclaimed Vesta. Seeing as she is both awesome and your sole companion, make sure she is with you. Secondly, placate the being speaking to you. Clearly, s/he has been through a lot and is feeling incredibly unstable.

Fear not. You have Vesta with you. The Narrator did not report it solely due to the need to regain narrative impetus after the lift scene. And not because he forgot or anything.

Definitely not that.

> Okay that last bit clentched it for me this is one of Jasmine's Magnes and I can only think of one thing to say to it, tell this poor creature "What happened is not your fault, and you can help, you've survived which means you can honor the memory of this town, of your trainer, Please tell me what you know so I can keep trying to set things right with the world" I know it's broad and doesn't make much sense but this thing obviously couldn't help when whatever happened to the town happened, it needs some comfort and to know it can still help fix the world.

“Whatever happened, it isn't your fault,” you say tentatively. “And... well, you've survived, haven't you? You can make amends for whatever it was – can honour the memory of this town, of your Trainer—”

A strange noise interrupts you – halfway between a laugh and a sob, heavily seasoned with grating metal.

“MY TRAINER?” asks the stranger scathingly. “WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM? WHAT – OH GOD, IF THAT'S HOW I SEEM TO YOU...”

You hear metal screaming along metal, like the sound of ploughs being hauled across shields.

“OH GOD,” they say. “OH GOD, OH GOD, OH GOD...”

The voice dissolves into fits of sobbing.

OK, so that didn't quite work out like you wanted it to. But at least there's no more Thu'um-esque screaming going on.

> Ask the Vexingly Emo Stranger what it wants. If that fails, try to find out why it's upset. Offer it hope (or cookies, or something).

“Hey,” you say, putting the Hideously Dangerous Stabby Thing away and sitting down. You're not sure why; it just seems like you might appear less threatening that way. “Look, what's wrong? What do you want?”

“I WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE,” answers the stranger, sniffing deeply. It sounds like a very small car backfiring.

“Why do you want to be left alone?” you ask. “Almost everyone's dead. I would've thought you were after company.”

Something silvery extends out of the gloom towards you. It's a knife, you think with a muffled curse – then it moves, and you see that it isn't.

It's a necrotic human hand, perfectly cast in stainless steel.

You stare in horrified fascination. There are raw patches oozing slow drops of mercury where the skin has been burned away; little metallic maggots like animated bullets writhe in open wounds. In some places, the flesh has been rent right down to the crystalline bone.